I'm Sorry, What?
by Clockwork-Hobo101
Summary: Cristina helps Owen the only way she can. Please, read and review


Title: "I'm sorry, what?"  
Rating: G  
Pairing: Owen Hunt/Cristina Yang  
Word Count: 2933  
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.  
Summary: Cristina helps Owen feel better the only way she knows how. So this became something a little different to how it started out, but I don't know... I'm not sure how I feel about it. But hey, you can tell me. What it became. Anyways, it is AU- no spoilers or anything- and it's just a little one-shot that kind of goes from angst-y to light-hearted. Hope you like it. ^_^  
(Originally posted on LJ)

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**"I'm Sorry, What?"**

You walk up that familiar doorstep, head hung low. You don't know how to tell her, what to tell her, how to word it so that she won't just give up on you- think of you as a lost cause and leave. Because you need her. And you didn't realise you did. You remember yelling at her at one point that you didn't, "I don't need you...", but that feels like such a long time ago now.  
So you traipse up the steps after hearing the buzzer to let you in, your feet feeling heavier by the second- each step painful and sluggish- and you try and figure out how fragile this new relationship is. She promised to give you a chance, but maybe you've already taken one too many.  
And it means a lot to her. The surgery. The surgeries means everything to her. You're aware of an ex that was all surgery. Known for his surgeries, his attention to detail, his finesse with a scalpel- but that's all your aware of. And you wonder if that's because that's all that matters in retrospect. Whether that's all she remembers of him now.  
But you shake off such thoughts, knowing that while that may have been your first thoughts about her- unemotional and competitive- you've seen compassion in those dark, heavy eyes that you didn't ask for, and was given to you anyway.

You open the door and realise a different kind of heaviness in the man whose burden you felt could not get any greater. And you open the door and let his tired body through. He coughs as if about to speak and you turn instantly, but he shakes it off and mumbles an apology and you watch him slump down on the sofa before giving you a look that asks if this is okay.  
You smile awkwardly and hate yourself for it, before sitting down next to him- watching his pale eyes dart about the room and land on anything that isn't you.  
You venture out some neutral question, and try to guess the answer, "Is-is something wrong?"

You watch her sigh, and you wonder if she's sick of having to look after you. You're kind of sick of having to be looked after.  
"I- uh-" You cough again, and rub your jaw as you delicately tongue the words in your mouth before spitting them out. "I'm going to take some time off..."  
"Oh..." You watch her mouth twist and she looks down, before composing herself and looking back, "You're... Leaving?"  
"No. Yes. No... Not in the 'Actually going anywhere' sense of the word..." You murmur, and laugh quietly and nervously before clarifying, "I just don't want to go back to the hospital... Till I feel- You know- Better..."

You watch him rub his temples, and look back at your face, searching for a response that you are yet to give.  
"I... Good." You squeeze out,  
"Good?"  
"Not because I'm glad you won't be there..." You nervously explain, "I just mean in the 'Glad you'll be feeling better' sense of the word..." And you notice the corner of his lip turn up into a half-smile as he stays looking down, as you repeat his term of just a few seconds ago.  
The two of you sit in a silence that sits somewhere between comfortable and awkward, before you ask your next question,  
"How long?"

And you wonder why she asked it: because it somehow gauges how broken you truly think you are or because she doesn't want to wait forever?  
You try to keep it as vague as possible, "I- I- Not long..." The words stumble out of from your lips, and you wonder if that's enough information, adding, "I don't want to be gone for too long..." She nods, and you watch her chew down on her lips. You finish, rubbing your face with your hands and keeping it there, exhausted, "I just need to-"  
"Sleep." She finishes for you, and you look up a little stunned, before surrendering to the fact and nodding ashamedly.  
She places a hand on your forearm before flinching it back and placing it in her lap, embarrassed.

You wonder why you just did that- whether it's appropriate for what's just been said- whether he needs you to comfort him at all.  
But you fight your better judgement and reach out again, this time touching his hand.

It's not quite a hand-hold, for some reason that would be too romantic and overly emotional for this situation. You don't know everything about her, but you get the feeling that she has meticulously calculated just how intimate her next gesture should be.  
So you let her hand stay there. Resting on top of your pale skin so lightly that it makes you question whether you're actually touching.  
"I'm sorry I never got to try again... With the... Date thing."  
And you watch her face drop a little further than it was already.

"Oh..." You whisper out, nodding and sucking in your lip a little bit; and you wonder if he heard it, because you barely did.  
His brow furrows as he watches your face a little more intently than you'd like at this point. You're worried that you're not hiding your disappointment as well you'd like, and so you inhale and the tiniest smile manages to curve from your mouth before you bring it back and look down.

"Oh?" You blurt out, and she looks kind of shocked at your evidently-unexpected response.  
"I just- I- You... I thought you weren't leaving?" She forces out of her mouth, and you stare at her with the same questioning face that you've been wearing for a while now.  
"I'm... Not."  
"Oh..." She nods again, and then rolls her eyes at herself.  
"You're gonna have to give me a little more than that..." You smirk out, and she sighs,  
"I get it..." She shakes her head, looking down, "I get it."

"You get what?"  
"I get that... You don't need to be thinking about dating. Right now. Not that- We were-" You gesture between the two of you, "Dating..." She pauses, "I didn't think we were dating." You state the last statement with fake indignation, trying to claw back any dignity that you just lost when you admitted that you still wanted him.  
"I'm not a surgeon... Right now, I- I'm not a surgeon."  
"Doesn't matter..." You mumble out, into your lap more than anything, even though you know he still is, and you notice his body react out of the corner of your eye. And you realise the truth in that statement: it really doesn't matter.  
"But I-" He nervously laughs out,

"I knew you were broken already..." She mutters, and looks up at you with the first smile of the conversation that doesn't seem sympathetic or feigned.  
And you realise she's interrupted a few of your sentences today perfectly.  
And you smile back. Or at least, you feel like you are. You're a little unsure of how much control your brain has over your body at this point, but you're smiling on the inside. You know that.

And you breathe deep, and think about how you can salvage this conversation into something that won't be remembered for its silence.  
"Right..."

"Right?"  
You worry about what's coming next, because you feel a bit fragile for plans right now, and yet you really want there to be plans. You want to know that she's included you in some kind of future thought.  
She stands for a second, and you watch the creases in her face relax and then contract into new lines- a new pattern and expression for each individual worry.  
"Okay..." She nervously breathes out.

You question why you're about to share this with him, what he's going to think of it- whether this is really going to do anything.  
But you figure he's told you so much, shown you so much, that maybe appropriateness and relevance has nothing to do with it anymore.

You watch her turn and walk over to some shelves, her deft surgeon's fingers run over everything finding the volume and twisting it up.  
"Okay..." She sighs, and turns to face you. And for the first time in your interaction today, there's an anxiety coming from her side. "We're going to dance it out..."  
"Dance it what?"  
"Dance it out" She repeats and she stands in front of you nervously,  
"I'm sorry..." You laugh out, "What?"

For all his confusion, you find yourself regretting uttering the words. And it would be kind of easy to turn it around now, you could leave it and hope he forgets.  
But you're pretty sure it's going to help.  
So you explain, "Uh, sometimes..."

She laughs nervously, and you remember back to the vent when she laughed at the steam blowing up and became human- touchable- and you wait without assumptions or deductions to hear what she's going to say.  
"So... Sometimes, I find-" She coughs, and becomes determined to get it all out in one go, "You look like you need to do something without a goal- without purpose or- or direction or anything... And I think you should dance it out..." She punctuates the statement with a nod.

There it is. All explained. And if you were the blushing kind, you're sure your cheeks would be glowing a bright shade of red right now.  
And you know it's not really fitting or appropriate. And you hate that you've even suggested it now.  
"I don't- I don't really dance..." He says, shaking his head.  
You knew it.  
You knew it was stupid.  
And yet there are your knees are bending in time to the music.

It's a slight movement. One that catches you off guard and captivates you.  
You watch as she gradually brings her hips into the motion, and shakes them rhythmically, looking down the entire time because your face is embarrassing her.

There you are.  
Looking like an idiot, bringing your shoulders into the mix and making the final decision that if you are going to do this, you are going to do it right.  
You slide off your jacket and drop it effortlessly and completely unromantically to the floor, knowing that it will probably stay there till the next time you need it.

You still watch- kind of unable to do anything else at this point- all the time wondering how this can make anyone feel better.  
But your shoulders do feel a little less tense, your chest is less tight, and you can't help but admit that it's working. And you're not even doing anything.  
Or, at least you weren't...

Because now you've taken him by his hands and pulled him up to his feet,  
"It's okay..." You mouth to him through your humiliated smile.  
And you sway to the music, despite the fact that he adamantly stands still.  
Like you knew he would.

And she works her way in front of you, spinning and then hesitating in your gaze for a second before looking down and continuing to move.  
Her small, delicate hands rest for a second on your face and then pull your scarf from around your neck, letting it fall on to the sofa as she smiles.

It's not that you're not embarrassed anymore. Far from it, your palms are clammy and your heart is racing as you desperately try to work out what he is thinking of you and your ridiculous display.  
But you can't help but notice the complete and utter incredulity in his expression- far from judgement and sarcasm. Just a complete and utter amazement as to what the hell you are doing.  
And he's still not moving. Or smiling. Or anything.  
So it hasn't worked yet.  
And while you are tempted to just stop and admit defeat, you remember telling him that you win all the contests, and this one- this one right here- is no exception.

You're not the dancing kind.  
It's not that you don't appreciate the gesture.  
You're just really not the dancing kind.  
You notice through your thoughts that she has taken a step back and worked her arms into this little routine.  
No, 'routine' is completely the wrong word. There is a freedom in the way that she moves that makes you realise why this whole 'Dancing it out'-thing works.  
Her hair moves around her face with every turn that she takes, and she's smiling a little bit more with every beat that passes through her body.  
And through the goofiness and awkward movements, she looks amazing. Completely beautiful.

Yeah, there are arms flailing.  
You know it. He knows it.  
You look like an idiot.  
But you notice in one of your fleeting looks to his face, that he's tilted his head to really look at you. You move a little closer to him and notice his chest heave in slightly with panic.

You're pretty sure she knows that you're nervous, but you get the feeling that she is going to continue despite that.  
And while you fret about what is going to come next, you are pleasantly surprised by her as she turns away from you and really shakes her perfect hips, grinding up against you, laughing as she does so. Tempting a laugh from your own throat.

You know he doesn't know how to react. That he's anxious. But you dance through it. And though this whole thing started because of him, you find yourself feeling better.  
You place two hands on his strong chest, keeping them there for a moment and feeling his heart beat through his clothes, before letting them glide up his jacket and around his neck. And through the tension, you feel him tentatively place his hands on your waist as you continue to move.

You worry whether you're allowed to do that, whether she would mind but the coy smile on her face tells you that if she does mind, she's hiding it well.  
And your hands feel safe on her. They're not shaking or twitching or itching to do something else- cut someone open- they're just at home.  
You try to move, but instinctively feel stupid and stop any kind of motion that your body attempts. But she latches onto it, sensing your momentary weakness, and takes your waist into her hands and moves it for you.  
And you laugh.  
The kind of laugh that is outward and extrovert and unlike anything you've felt for a while.  
And she laughs with you.

So he's not doing it by himself. So it took a long time. So you looked stupid.  
If Owen Hunt has taught you anything, it's how small some of your worries can be.  
You feel his hand in your hair, curl around his fingers, and you look up for the first time in a while, because now you don't feel like such an idiot. And you're not used to having fun with him. And you want to take it in.

She slides her hands around bottom of your back, and you take off your jacket and throw it into a similar place as your scarf. Though you don't care enough to look back and check.  
She pulls a face that is kind of between a pout and a sneer, mocking her own dancing, and you both laugh again.  
And it feels so good to laugh.  
And you realise that if ever there was a reason to get help, to be able to sleep again, it's this. It's this feeling that you're sharing with her right now. This is reason enough to get better.

You break apart from his grasp, dancing off around the room with no direction. Listening to his laughs as you do so, your moves getting stupider and less un-coordinated by the second.  
And just for a second, you two aren't the angst-ridden couple that you've become. You're funny and happy and dancing it out. You'll have to go back to it all soon, he'll go back to restless nights and haunting memories.  
But not right now.  
And though you make no mention of it, you notice that he's started to move, and it's kind of sexy to see the look on his face, and you get the feeling that what you're seeing is a little bit of the before.

That's right, it's not quite dancing, but there is some kind of movement going through you. It's a little weird, a little clumsy, but it feels good.  
You watch her circle the coffee table, not looking where she is going and stumbling into your arms, and she pulls the strap of her top up onto her shoulders again as you brush the hair from her face.  
She laughs for a second, and does the tiniest robot-dance whilst in your arms. And there you are with the laughing again. You hold her gently by the shoulders, and she looks up at you, never stopping the incessant dancing that seems to have taken over her, that still makes you laugh, as she takes a piece of hair from her mouth and pushes it back behind her ear.  
There's no desperate kiss, or need for vindication.  
No heart-wrenching story.  
No admission of guilt or confession of love.  
There's just a smile that the two of you share.  
And the realisation that you can be more than the after.


End file.
